


Always

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Crying, HIS SPIRIT IS THE SAME OKAY, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I mean like...WHAT ELSE DO I EVER WRITE ABOUT..., M/M, Panic Attacks, not gonna' tag as character death because uh...techNICALLY Shiro never dies?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: “We’ve found another one.”Keith stares at the video feed at the corner of Black’s screen. His hands tighten around the Lion’s throttles."I’ll be right over,” he says. He reaches over to end the comm call, but Kolivan raises a hand.“Wait.”Keith stills. He lets his right hand fall back around the throttle.At last Kolivan settles on: “This one is…different."In which the Shiro who crash-landed on Earth was a clone as well. After his death—and the deaths of several other clones—Keith finds the original Shiro.





	Always

“We’ve found another one.”

Keith stares at the video feed at the corner of Black’s screen. His hands tighten around the Lion’s throttles.

“I’ll be right over,” he says. He reaches over to end the comm call, but Kolivan raises a hand.

“Wait.”

Keith stills. He lets his right hand fall back around the throttle.

At last Kolivan settles on: “This one is…different.”

Stars slink past the windows. A proximity warning blips on another part of Black’s screen, alerting Keith to an encroaching asteroid field.

Keith prepares to guide Black through the rubble. “Different how?”

 

 

Shiro #6 is having a panic attack when Keith arrives at the base.

A Blade medic is at his bedside. He tries to nurse him back down against the pillows; Shiro flails like a wounded animal, his motions uncoordinated—weak for lack of nourishment. His arms are thin, his skin sickly pale; without his usual muscle mass Keith almost mistakes him for a stranger. But then he catches a glimpse of that face—those sea-gray eyes, still beautiful even when red-rimmed and shadowed for lack of sleep—and Keith _knows_ like he knows the hum of the desert at night, like he knows his own soul.

It’s Shiro. It’s always Shiro.

It takes Shiro a while to calm down. He doesn’t seem to notice Keith at first, too confused and afraid to make sense of the world beyond the medic at his bedside—but then his gaze catches on Keith’s red jacket, and he stutters like a broken toy. His hand falls to grip the sheets on the bed; his Adam’s apple bobs as he stares across the room.

“K…Keith?”

“Hey bud,” Keith murmurs. He watches the tremors wrack Shiro’s frame. He looks so thin and fragile on the edge of his hospital bed, like he’s barely a wet sheet of paper against a stiff breeze. “I’m here.”

Shiro’s breaths are sharp and husky. The medic says something Keith can’t make out, and moves to guide Shiro back against the pillows. This time, Shiro lets himself be subdued. His eyes never leave Keith as he crosses to the bed.

Silence descends on the hospital room. The medic steps back to give them some space, and Keith reaches out a hand. He flicks a look to Shiro’s face for permission. Shiro nods weakly against the pillows at his neck, and Keith clasps their fingers together.

Shiro weighs Keith’s fingers against his skin. He squeezes them, with such thin strength Keith feels tears sting his eyes.  

“You’re not real,” Shiro chokes out at last. His eyes are wet too, and his chest still heaves as he works through the panic. “You can’t be real.”

“I know it’s crazy,” Keith assures him. “Believe me, I do. But it’s really me. We found each other.”

“You can't—” There’s a sob as Shiro clutches Keith’s fingers. “Keith, I…”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Shiro.” His free hand finds Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro wilts forward, and Keith catches him against his chest; muscles jump under Keith’s palm as he cries. “Shh…I got you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Shiro only tightens his grip on his fingers. His face is pressed along the divot of Keith’s collarbone, slightly obscured by the flap of his jacket collar. Keith squeezes Shiro close, and a real sob wrenches out of his throat. It’s a terrible, guttural sound—one that needles straight through Keith’s heart—and he lets his own tears fall free as he rocks the two of them back and forth on the bed.

“You’re safe,” Keith says, as Shiro falls apart. “It’s over.”

 

Shiro #6 has all black hair.

There’s no scar across his nose, though there are still some on his back from his time in the arena. Keith has felt them once before, back with Shiro #4, and he knows they’re the same when he traces them through this Shiro’s thin hospital shirt. The raised bumps and dips of claw-marks and stingers haunt the ridges of his ribs; the slope of his spine.

Keith tells Shiro he loves every part of him; Shiro never believes him, but at least the pronouncement earns him a (weak) smile.

Keith asks Shiro, “What do you remember?” and he gets an unexpected response:

“The arena. After they captured us, they pitted us against monsters and other prisoners. We were like dogs, fighting for their entertainment. Then…everything got fuzzy. I know Haggar took me away. There was an…operating room…” Shiro worries the fabric of the hospital sheets between his thin fingers, his gaze trapped on the far wall. “They took my arm. But the rest is just…darkness. Strange dreams. I try to remember, but it’s like there’s a wall in my head keeping me out.”

Keith’s body is somewhere far away. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears: “You don’t remember Voltron?”

Shiro’s brow furrows. He’s reclined against the bed, his legs stretched out with his arm draped over his stomach. Keith recrosses his legs where he sits propped up against his part of the pillows. “…No. The name sounds familiar though.” A pause. “What is it?”

Keith has to remember how to move his fingers. He swallows—feels those same eyes on him as he fiddles with the sleeves of his jacket.

“It’s a weapon,” he concedes, once the fabric covers his wrists. He feels safer when he’s covered up. “Formed when five pilots come together with their ships to make one big…robot.”

A bark of a laugh. “Sounds like an anime from the eighties.”

“Yeah, well. It starts to feel normal after a while.”

“Jesus, Keith. Don’t tell me you fly one of those things…”

Keith pushes through the numbness enough to smile. “The black one. Used to fly the red one. They all look like lions, and they’re actually sentient.”

Shiro shoots him a grin. “Come on. Now you’re just messing with me.”

“No, really! I swear. Cross my heart.” Keith mimes the motion.

Shiro shakes his head, at a loss for words. His eyes find the ceiling—map out the creases in the metal where one panel meets another.

“Still pretty sure this is a dream,” he muses.

“Don’t blame you.” Keith has lost track of the times he’s woken up, hopeful that this whole ordeal has been a nightmare. It’s so wonderful—so painful—to think somewhere out there the original Shiro came back from Kerberos, and Keith graduated from the Garrison, and the two of them flew off to see the stars—on their own terms, not with the weight of the universe on their shoulders.

Well. Maybe that’s unrealistic too. Shiro’s hand finds Keith’s knee, and Keith secures his palm across his knuckles. He thumbs circles into Shiro’s skin.  

“I missed you,” Keith says.

He always does. Maybe he always will.

 

 

Shiro #3 managed to find a Galra ship. From what the Blade gleaned from the black box he was headed to Voltron’s last known location when his engine died. The ship’s combustion heater failed, and Shiro froze to death.

Keith tracked down the ship before the Blade did. He found Shiro curled on the floor of the cabin behind the pilot’s seat, stiff with cold and rigor mortis, and knelt to scrape the frost from his visor. Shiro’s eyes were closed—his face relaxed, skin waxy.

“I love you, Keith,” Shiro had said to the flight recorder, before cold overtook the ship. “You’re gonna’ be great. I know you will. You already are.”

Keith keeps the tapes hidden back at the Castle, swathed in the embrace of one of Shiro’s replicated shirts.

 

 

“He could be the original.”

It’s a thought Keith hasn’t dared voice. He wills himself to meet Kolivan’s eyes. “Because he doesn’t have the scar…?”

“It would also explain the lack of white hair and degradation of muscle mass.” When the silence stretches on, Kolivan elaborates: “To create a clone, Haggar would have needed to draw from the original Shiro’s quintessence. He would have been suspended in one of their stasis chambers, with only tubes to provide him with food and oxygen.” A pause. Keith’s eyes have wandered back to the open door, where Shiro can be seen asleep on his hospital bed. His form still looks too small—too angular under the sheets. Keith feels Kolivan’s gaze like a weight on his arm: “Parts of his energy would be pumped into a waiting vessel. If the witch had aimed for the area between the clone’s frontal and temporal lobes, the procedure could have left a scar…and white hair has always been associated with quintessence-wielders.”

“And he doesn’t seem to remember Voltron.”

“No,” Kolivan agrees. “Though perhaps this is all part of an elaborate ploy. We don’t know how far the Empire progressed in their cloning technology before the program was terminated. Perhaps Haggar learned how to erase evidence of…tampering.”

Keith makes a noncommittal noise. His attention is still on Shiro where he lies on the bed. There's a shift of clothing as Kolivan lets his shoulders droop. For the first time in the year they’ve known each other, Keith hears him sigh.

“Do you sense anything different about him?” Kolivan asks.

Keith doesn't so much as blink. “No. Even the ones controlled by Haggar…” He pauses. “Deep down, they’re all just _Shiro_.”

 

 

Shiro #5’s corpse was found on the planet Hydex. The planet hovered under the shadow of Haggar’s research facility, by now reduced to a crumpled mess of wire and metal; the shape blotted out the sun like a stray cloud as the Blade team dug up Shiro’s body. The snow had preserved his form somewhat; his skin was strung taught over his skeleton, hair like crystalized thread. He was found beside the skeleton of a large mammalian creature. Great slashes caught the light as Keith past through the creature’s ribcage. He ran his hand over one of the cuts, and pretended he could sense Shiro’s touch.

Keith wondered which of the two died first.

They buried Shiro #5 next to #2–#4, and their search continued.

 

 

Shiro is on the floor the next time Keith enters his hospital room.

He’s not sprawled out like he collapsed. He’s just sitting there, almost peacefully, one leg drawn up to his chest with the other splayed forward. His fingers pluck a rhythm into the fabric of his pants.

Keith stands by the door. Then, slowly, he crosses the space between them. “Hey,” he says, as he slides down beside him. “Get tired of lying around?”

“Wanted to take a shower.” Shiro’s fingers still, then trail off his knee. He plants his palm on the floor. “Had to take a break.”

Of course he hadn’t called anyone for help. Keith adjusts his jacket collar. He’s taken to wearing his old civilian clothes around Shiro; he doesn’t like the way Shiro looks at him when he’s in uniform.

(“You’ve been through so much,” Shiro had murmured, tracing the mark on Keith’s cheek. “How long have we even been out here, Keith?”)

“You’re half-way there,” Keith points out now. The bathroom is only a couple yards away. “Need a hand?”

Shiro splutters around a chuckle. Keith realizes what he said: “Shit Shiro, you know I didn't—”

“It’s fine,” Shiro giggles. It’s a sound Keith hasn’t heard for a long time, and he lets it cradle some light back into his bones. “Looks like I’ve _handed down_ my crappy sense of humor…”

“Jesus Christ…”

“I’ve gotta’ _hand_ it to you, Keith—”

“ _Don’t_.”

Shiro leans forward against his knee to smile at Keith. He lets the giggles trail off. “You’re the same as always, you know that? You’ve changed so much, but you’re still…” He tilts his head. Keith meets his eyes, and his heart speeds up a bit against the walls of his ribcage. “Despite everything, I feel like I still _know_ you.”

Keith’s hand finds that familiar place on Shiro’s shoulder. It scares him, how his palm spans the thin space across his clavacle, and he tightens his grip. He can’t think of what to say, but Shiro doesn’t seem to mind. The lines around his eyes crinkle as he smiles. It’s a smaller smile now—sadder.

“There were different versions of me, weren’t there?”

Keith’s whole body goes rigid. Shiro plants his hand on Keith’s wrist before he can move. “I’ve been remembering my dreams, from the stasis chamber. I think…I could see through their eyes.” He takes a moment to consider. “We were connected somehow. Shared the same soul, maybe. Sometimes I would blink and I’d be looking at you over a fire, or through a visor. Sometimes I could hear…” Another pause. “Did you ever…sing to me?”

Keith waits for the words to come; for the mess to untangle from his throat. A weight settles down on him, from all the time he’s spent on Shiro’s trail as the Blade hunted down his clones…the warm embrace of Shiro’s arm around his back as he hummed him to sleep…the lullaby his dad used to sing to him before bed:

_Close your eyes_

_Love will always be here_

_Close your eyes_

_Let the night be your sweet kiss_

_Place yourself in the light_

_Dream of fireflies burning bright_

_Dream of everything you like…_

“I…”

Keith means to go on. His eyes sting; a gasp escapes his teeth. He tugs his wrist from Shiro’s grasp—presses his clenched fists to his eyes.

“I can't…I can’t do this anymore…”

“Keith.”

“Promise me you’re the last one,” he begs. He barely keeps the tears at bay. “Just…tell me. It doesn’t even have to be true.”

“It’s true.” Keith feels Shiro’s warmth at his side as he shifts closer on the floor. “It’s different now. I can’t feel them anymore. I'm—I’m the only one left.”

Keith takes another tearful breath. Shiro rests a weak arm around his shoulders—shushes him gently when he melts against his chest.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s over.”

 

 

When they found Shiro #4, he was sick.

His form was much like Shiro #6’s, with dark hollows around his eyes and sharp, bony limbs. He’d spent the past few months stranded on a desert planet, hunting alien fauna; guarding the one viable waterhole for miles with only his arm and a set of dirt traps for protection. He set fires with the heat from his Galra fingers, and decorated his stone shelter with fossils and geodes. His stamina took a severe hit when he ate something rotten; by the time the Blade found him, he had to be carried onto their battle cruiser.

It was a slow death, compared to the other clones’. The Blade tried healing pods; pills and syrups; quintessence therapy…nothing seemed to restore Shiro’s strength or appetite. Every day another speck of light left Shiro’s eyes; every day he forced down less and less food. At week’s end he was reduced to a shell, stretched out on his bed without the strength to lift his arms.

Through the whole ordeal, Keith never left Shiro’s side. That night, when he couldn’t get out of bed, Keith nestled down beside him. As they talked, he repositioned himself under Shiro’s arm—hugged him close so their chests brushed…So Keith could rest his forehead against Shiro’s shoulder. Two hands met in the darkness—Shiro’s barely strong enough to squeeze back as Keith threaded their fingers tight.

Shiro’s skin was hot against Keith’s hand. He had a fever; his shirt was off, the sheets barely a weight on their legs. They murmured to each other between Shiro’s lapses of sleep (“Please don’t let me fall asleep, Keith. Please, not yet…”), and Keith traced the scars on his back for the first time.

“I love every part of you,” Keith told him—and with all of his strength Shiro met his kiss. There was saltwater on Keith’s lips when he drew back for air.

Hours past like that, huddled against each other like they could hold each other back from death. Shiro was practically a ghost in Keith’s arms when he said,

“Could you…do you know any…” A breath, fragile like a baby bird’s. “It’s stupid…”

“It’s not stupid,” Keith shushed him. He drew a line with his palm across Shiro’s back. He could feel the knobs of his spine. “What can I do?”

A tremble. “Maybe…could you…sing?”

“Sure.” A hollow croak left Keith’s mouth—a parody of a laugh. “But you know I’m a terrible singer…”

“You’re a great singer,” Shiro murmured. His eyes slipped closed. “You’re beautiful. Your voice is…beautiful.”

So, Keith sang.

 

 

_Close your eyes_

_I will be here beside you_

_Close your eyes_

_Let the rhythm remind you…_

The days add up. Shiro graduates from hospital slush to (nibbles of) actual food. He works with a physical therapist every day to regain control of his muscles. Keith has to leave for missions at least twice a week, but now that Sendak’s gone, team Voltron doesn’t often require the aid of their titular robot. Planetary civil wars seem tame in comparison to the previous ten-thousand years of universal warfare.

As soon as Shiro deems himself ready for visitors, the other Paladins appear regularly with news and gifts. Pidge tends to stay the longest of all the Paladins, flopping down on Shiro’s hospital bed like they’re two kids at a sleepover, armed each day with a new array of photos and videos. Sometimes she’ll download a crappy Altean movie and the three of them will crowd together to watch late at night.

Shiro’s memories of Voltron come back to him slowly. He connects the dots one at a time, oftentimes out of the blue (“Did we ever buy a _cow?_ ” he asks one morning over breakfast).

The night he remembers #4, he kisses Keith like he’s his only source of air.

“You’ve done so much for me…” he gasps between kisses. “Keith, I’m so…so sorry—”

“I couldn’t save you,” Keith protests. They sink back against Shiro’s bed; the pillows muss Shiro’s forelock. “Every time I lose you. I promised I’d save you and I can never…”

“Hey.” Shiro scrambles to pull him close. Keith lets out a shaky breath as his nose finds the crook between Shiro’s neck and shoulder; he kisses the skin there—once, twice—and relishes the warmth under his tongue. “I’ve got you. I’m alive. You saved me.”

“You died…right under my hands…”

“Keith,” Shiro says. “That’s not on you. All those times…I never, ever blamed you. And that night, when you held me—I was so scared. I was so, so scared. And you made me feel safe. Do you know how much of a gift that was?” Keith’s chest clenched as Shiro kissed his shoulder, right over the scar. “You made me feel loved. I died warm and _loved_.”

“Shiro…”

Keith latches his arms around Shiro’s back. Shiro clutches him close, as fiercely as he can with only one arm. It’s such a relief to hold him and kiss him like this…the release lights Keith up from the center outward. Sparks trail up his veins like stars; there’s something hot and electric under Keith’s skin as he meets Shiro’s mouth—as he curls his hand along the line of Shiro’s wing bone.

The clones Keith met were always real. They were always _Shiro_. But this time—

Shiro’s hand tangles through Keith’s hair. Keith hums—draws back a moment to find Shiro’s eyes. The two survey each other, ruffled and flushed and so very alive. Shiro smiles, and his eyes are wet. He trails his hand from the back of Keith’s head to cup his cheek.

Keith smiles back. He takes Shiro’s hand and guides it to his mouth, where he presses a line of kisses to his palm. That same giggle trips out of Shiro’s mouth, and Keith feels like he’s made of stardust.

This time he’s back for good.

**Author's Note:**

> The song is “Falling Star Lullaby” by Renee & Jeremy! Here’s [that song on Youtube](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DhfdTjVU6vJM&t=MTE2MWY3ODBjYzZhOGVkMjRhMGRhMmZlNjlmYTJjZTBjODBmNGEyMCxVbnlvRTVlVg%3D%3D&b=t%3AKmIAjdJSuaSOp_S6s_mDZg&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmighty-trash.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F174803562703%2Falways)…and here’s [my “Sheith Lullaby” playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/cushfuddled/playlist/5AfMBNbDeNZqd6lrX9OB9J) for The Feels.
> 
> Season 6 is gonna' kill me :)
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: [[x]](http://mighty-trash.tumblr.com/)


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